


Loyalty

by Verse



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Character Study, Developing Relationship, Other, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25746472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verse/pseuds/Verse
Summary: The Master is quite the oddball, but perhaps the strangest part is that they seem to trust you.
Relationships: Fujimaru Ritsuka/Mordred | Saber of Red
Comments: 17
Kudos: 74





	Loyalty

**2nd Ascension -** _ I feel like spreading my wings. _

The bag feels heavy in your hands, the sensation of the teeth it contains almost criminally relaxing against your fingers, and that’s why the Master’s question catches you off-guard.

“What?” Surely you’ve misheard. There’s no way they’d ask something as stupid as-

“Wings. Are you planning on growing some?” Nope. You heard right. And it’s just as baffling as the first time. “Cuz a warning would be nice if you did. I know you guys kinda come with your own clothes, but in case you ever want to borrow some of the staff’s, we need to prepare for adjustments-”

_ “I’m not going to grow wings.” _ You’re  _ pretty sure _ of that. As disappointing as that is. “That was a metaphor, good lord.” 

You pause. “You… do know what a metaphor is, right?” You don’t interact much with nonservants, aside from the Master, but you  _ have _ heard about a couple staff members who had trouble with figures of speech. Something about not being changelings but being close to them, or whatever. 

“I do, but honestly at this point I’m just expecting the craziest stuff from your guys.” Which is  _ rich _ coming from someone who plays fetch with an avatar of hatred for  _ fun. _ “Remember that time Merlin wished me to ‘have fertile feet?’”

You can’t help but snort at that. “Oh, yeah, that was  _ hilarious.” _

_ “I still have to mow the sole of my shoes, Mordred.” _

This time you burst out laughing. The Master rolls their eyes at you, but they’re smiling. You know they don’t hold it against you.

“My point  _ is,” _ they continue once you’ve started calming down, “better be over than underprepared.”

“Merlin’s a bastard. You shouldn’t set your servant standards based on him.” You shake your head. “I don’t think anyone is about to grow wings anytime soon.”

“Siegfried did though. So-”

“Siegfried did  _ what?!” _

**Bond 3 -** _ Christ, you're such an idiot! You're so useless without me doing all of the work! Honestly!...Good God! _

“Hello to you too, Mordred.”

“Don’t you  _ hello _ me!” You storm into the room with all the righteous fury of a dragon whose hoard was scratched. “Look at you! Just-  _ look at yourself! _ Would it  _ kill _ you to have  _ some _ self-preservation at times??”

And they really  _ do _ look terrible. Scars are one thing; as a knight, you’ve been through more battles than you can count. Scars are just the proof that one’s survived. Even if the Master has a tendency to get… interesting ones, in the end, a scar is just a scar. Nothing to worry much about.

Scars are one thing.  _ Fresh injuries _ are another.

The scrapes and cuts are many, but nothing unusual. The bandage around their forearm is more worrying, but it should heal in no time- just a lucky swipe from a stray sphynx, according to Sir Bedivere (and oh, wasn’t it one  _ wild _ surprise to see Sir Bedivere again after- everything.)

But it’s the Master’s side that draws your eye.

They’re wearing a long shirt that covers everything the blanket doesn’t, but you know. You can feel it in your  _ guts. _ A light glow can be seen through the fabric, the Master’s smile is strained by something more heavy than simple pain, and you _ know. _

“It was that lance, wasn’t it?” You get closer, sit on the bed. “The one that killed me.”

They advert your gaze. “... Yeah.”

“What did you even  _ do?! _ ” You’re angry, you’re absolutely  _ pissed,  _ you’re angry that they didn’t bring you, and you’re angry that you weren’t there to protect them, and you’re angry that they got hurt, and you’re angry because so long as you’re burning you’re not  _ scared. _ “Don’t you know squishy mages like you need to stay on the  _ backlines?!” _

“What, you think I  _ like _ getting hurt?!” The Master sits straighter, glaring at you. “It was a  _ battle, _ Mordred. I couldn’t exactly just hide and wait for it to be over.”

“Actually, yes! That’s very much what you could have done! That’s what most people who can’t fight do!”

“That’s only effective so long as people don’t specifically target me, which, spoiler alert,  _ they tend to do! _ There’s only so much Mash can do, Mordred!” 

They pinch the bridge of their nose and huffs. It’s rare to see the Master genuinely angry. Not that you care.  _ You’re _ angry at  _ them.  _ “Look, I  _ literally _ just came back, and I  _ kind of had a rough time _ in Camelot. Can we perhaps  _ not _ do this?”

“...  _ Fine.” _ You get off their bed. You refuse to look at them. “Just try to take better care of yourself, dumbass. For better and for worse, you  _ are _ our Master.” And you stride forward-

only to be stopped by a hand on your wrist.

“Wait.” Their knuckles are charred black, like soot, like charcoal. They’ve been like this long before they’ve summoned you. Something about dreams, and castles, and fighting off hatred. You don’t know the specifics. Scars, in the end, only mean that one can survive- and despite everything, you have to admit that the Master is quite skilled at that. “... You don’t have to leave. If you don’t want to.”

(It’s always like this, with the Master.  _ If you want to. If you agree to. _ A single ‘no’ and they drop everything. Any expression of discomfort, and they’ll apologize for overstepping. It’s weird. They’re The Master, but they’re no king. They’re barely even a mage. They…)

(Well, they call themself a friend. You’re still not sure what to do with that Master of yours.)

Their voice is tired and their eyes pleading. You stay. Not that these two statements are related. You’ve just wanted to check out some of their mangas for a while now.

You say nothing. They say nothing. You look through their shelf. They lay back down and turn their back at you. You pick something with a generic anime cover. You sit back on their bed.

“... I had to kill you, you know.”

… Ah.

You close your novel. You’ve been about a dozen pages in already, yet you can’t for the life of you remember what they were about.

“Well, I know it wasn’t,  _ you _ you. But also it  _ was. _ They had your face. They had your voice. They had your soul.”

You hear a shuffle, and turn to look at them. They’re rolling on their back again. Gaze on you, you, you. 

“They were hurting.  _ You were hurting so much, Mordred.”  _ They raise a hand to cover their face. To hide in shame. “I couldn’t help them. I… I wanted to. I wanted to  _ save _ them.” There’s a desperate edge in the way they say  _ save, _ and for a second, you’re scared of what they would have been willing to do to help that double of yours. “I couldn’t. I had to kill them.”

Your Master is no king. They’re no knight. They’re not even a footsoldier. They’re of these civilians you passed as you went to war, the farmer, the merchant, the shepherd. 

Your Master is a  _ human. _

(For a second, you wish that weren’t the case. Maybe it would be easier on them.)

“I hate killing.” The Master almost spits. “I hate killing, and I hate seeing people suffer, and I hate seeing my  _ friends _ suffer, and I hate  _ killing my friends,  _ and I just. I hated this. I  _ still  _ hate this.”

… Oh.

You’re… not sure what to say.

(And doesn’t it feel awkward, to know that in your place, your Master would have; to know that your Master can appease even the wildest of berserkers, but you don’t know how to comfort one, single human.)

You wring your hands together. Tact… has never exactly been your forte. But you can’t speak to the Master the same way you’d speak to Gawain or Aggravain, can you?

“... I’m glad you’re alive.” You say finally.

_ I’m glad you did it. I’m glad you fought. I’m glad you killed. I’m sorry, I’m sorry for what you’re going through, but  _ **_I’m glad you survived._ **

**3rd Ascension -** _ Alright! Master! How's this? _

“Looking good!” Two thumbs up, a bright smile. Completely genuine. (They always are. You’re starting to think them unable to be dishonest.)

“Thanks.” You accept the materials they give you. Moving around without armor feels… stranger. Lighter. In a literal way, obviously, but also in, like… a metaphorical way? Not having to hide your face, your body, your  _ self, _ finally being out of the traitor’s skin you’ve worn for so long… It’s weird. It’s new. It’s… light. There’s no other word for it. It’s like a weight has been lifted from your heart.

You wonder if the Master knows how much you owe them.

“So, I’ve been wondering,” they say, obvious to your thoughts, “what do  _ you _ do with all these?”

You look down to today’s gift. Old god hearts, octuplet crystals… well. There’s only one thing you can do with them, really.

“I’m gonna eat them.”

There is a beat.

“... I’m serious!” Not exactly your favorite food (raw hearts are  _ gross _ ) but there are the most efficient source of mana for someone like you.

“I- well-” They seem at loss for words. “... I can’t say I saw  _ that _ coming. Don’t the crystals hurt your teeth?”

“Of course not. The new ones you gave me are  _ much _ tougher than human ones.” You pull your lips back to show them off, slide a finger in your mouth to tug your cheek away from them. 

Anyone else would have flinched at the flaunting of these sharp and beastly teeth. The Master only looks confused. “The ones I…?” They frown. Think. And then, suddenly, they get it. “Oh! The dragon teeth I gave you a while back?”

“Yep.” You pull your hand back and close your mouth again. “I  _ have _ a dragon heart already, after all. Figured I might as well put it to use.”

“This is so cool.” They extend a hand, pause midway through. “...Can I?” 

(Again, again with asking first, again with permissions.  _ Can I? Can you? Do you want to? Do you agree to? _ It’s weird. You’re a knight; you don’t get  _ asked _ stuff. You’re told what to do, and you obey. This is new, too, and weird, and… light.)

“Sure thing.” 

And so they reach out, and touch you. First the chin, tentatively, just brushing it with the tip of their fingers. Then these fingers cup your jaw, go up to your cheek. And- a thumb at your bottom lip, pressing gently.

You open your mouth, obediently. Your draconic teeth are sharp, and thick, terrifying by all means. The Master’s thumb slide in your mouth and settles on them as if it were its home.

Your Master is sticking their very fragile finger in what is basically a knife vault. Belonging to someone whose epithet is The Knight Of Treachery.

It occurs to you that the Master trusts you so much that it most likely didn’t even  _ cross _ their mind that you could hurt them.

The thumb strokes your teeth, their tip, their sides, their every curve. Their face is nothing but pure fascination.

That irks you a little. For a second, you consider closing your mouth. Not  _ violently-  _ their hands are already hurt enough as they are- but just to remind them to watch their back.

You settle for smashing your tongue against their thumb.

The effect is immediate; their eyes widen, their face turns an interesting shade of crimson, and the beginning of a sputter bubbles at their lips.

You give their finger a hard suck, for good measure. Oh,  _ now _ that’s a funny face.

They pull their hand away from you with a wet  _ pop _ , cradle it against their chest. They look so  _ embarrassed _ you’re  _ living. _

“...I,” They’re looking anywhere but at you. “I, uh, thanks. That, that was neat.”

You burst out laughing. Oh, this is  _ priceless. _

**Bond Lvl 4 -** _ Hey... do you think I'll be a better knight than my father? Hmhm, is that so? _

They look at with knit brows, with that expression they have when they want to say something but they’re not sure if they should.

“What, is there something on my face?” 

“No, you just…” They trail off. You make a point to keep staring at them. They won’t weasel out of this one. “... I didn’t realize you held my opinion so highly, that’s all.”

**4th Ascension -** _ Thank you Master, I have reached this point. _

The scales feel smooth under your fingers. You tilt your head back and glide them over your throat, slotting them neatly into place. 

Strange to think that once upon a time, you’d have been reluctant to that- you’d have wanted to stay human, like your father. Strange to think that once upon a time, you’d have been more reluctant to- well. Being more of yourself, for lack of a better phrasing.

“By the way, Master, I was talking to Da Vinci earlier.” You can feel your throat tremble under your fingers as you speak. “About, uh.” 

This is kind of awkward. You’re not used to talk about that kind of things. Y’know. Stuff unrelated to battle.

“Well. Bodies.”

The Master’s eyebrows raise. “About your scales? Why, are there any health complications we should be aware of?”

“Nah.” Hah! Trust the Master to focus on this kind of stupid things. Their common sense is eroding faster than Astolfo’s. “It was about. Mh.” 

You shift uncomfortably, thinking about the best way to put it.

“... She said she could make my chest flatter, if I wanted.”

“Your…?” Their gaze goes down. Then, realization hits them. “Oh! That’s pretty cool. You gonna take her up on her offer?”

They’re so casual about it. Obviously. They just roll with any flow now. Or maybe  _ you’re _ the weird one, feeling so strange about it. “I don’t know.” You say honestly. “I’m not… I don’t mind my body. I  _ like  _ my body.” Scales and teeth. Breasts and thumbs.

“That’s fair.” They nod. You’ve run out of scales to slot on your skin. You’re still can’t look at them in the eyes.

“... I don’t know if I’m a guy.” You add, a little quieter.

You feel fingers at your throat, tracing the outline of your new scales. “That’s a valid feeling.”

“But I’m not a girl. That I’m sure.”  _ Woman.  _ You feel bile on your tongue anytime someone uses that word to describe you.  _ Woman. _ Feminine pronouns, you can deal. Your body, you don’t mind. But  _ woman. One of the girls. The female knight.  _ They’re just… not you. Like this scaleless body you used to have. Like this armor you used to wear, stealing your identity from everyone including yourself. It’s just… not you.

“That’s great!” The Master smiles and slaps your back. “Gender’s weird. It’s great that you have a starting idea of how you feel.”

“But  _ you  _ know who you are.” You frown. “You know you’re neither a man nor a woman. I’m not even sure of that.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s just me. There are more options than just dude, gal, and X-gender.” Their fingers catch the end of your ponytail and start weaving the locks between them. “Look at Astolfo, they’re just a big shrug about the whole thing. Or D’Eon, whose gender change all the time.” They shrug. “If you realize later you’re a guy, that’s great. If you settle for non-binary, that’s great. But ‘not girl’ is good enough on its own. What matters is that you’re comfortable with yourself, you know?”

Again, by making it about you. Again, by making it about being you.

Maybe Mordred is not such a terrible person to be.

**Bond Lvl 5 -** _ I entrust you with my sword, honor, and life. I might just be a third-rate knight... but you're still okay with that? _

The Master’s eyes widen, their breath halts. They have to know, the weight of your oath. They have to know, the depth of your words.

In life, you’ve only ever pledge your sword to one person. In death, you’ve only ever wished to prove your worth to  _ her. _

You’re willing to let it all go. Your mistakes. Your grudges. That hill of swords upon which you’ve died. You’re willing to let it all go, if only they’d accept you, inhuman, treacherous, broken you.

And though there is still a heavy knot in your guts bracing itself for rejection, you know, you know they would.

“... Mordred,” you’ve pledged as knights do; on one knee, both hands around the hilt of your sword, head bowed. You feel their palms surrounding your hands, gently, so gently. You can feel every calluses, every scars on them. They are so, so very human. They have been through so, so much. “Mordred, look at me.”

And so you do. They’re missing an eye. Scars marr every exposed patch of their skin. You know for a fact many more are hidden under their clothes, know that lance that killed you broke their flank like porcelain that cannot be mended.

There is something so soft, so touched, in their expression, that for a second you forget to breathe.

“I am no King. No emperor, no god. Not even a knight.” One of their hand slides up your forearm. 

“But if you are willing,” it goes up and cup your cheek. Their thumb at your lips. You could bite it off if you wanted, with those very teeth they’ve gifted you. These very teeth they’ve touched unafraid.

“I would be honored,” Their forehead on yours. Their voice is like a whisper, like a secret. A promise meant solely for the two of you. “to have you by my side until the end of it all.”

**Author's Note:**

> oh fuck i love mordred


End file.
